


Trying to Breathe Without Air

by Pilferingstarlight



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Breaking Up & Making Up, M/M, Make up sex, Poetic, Post-Break Up, Sad, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7543876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pilferingstarlight/pseuds/Pilferingstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night after a huge fight, Phil leaves Dan. Dan spends the rest of the week trying to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying to Breathe Without Air

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys~  
> I really wanted to challenge myself to write a story using solely pronouns, and also step out of my comfort zone by writing in a slightly more poetic style than I'm used to and this... sorta happened. (I promise I'm going to write something cheerful someday.) So, yeah, and though I never mention them by name, the two in the story are Dan and Phil (obviously.) Hope you enjoy and as always lemme know what you think!

On Sunday night his lover watched him as he slept, his body exhausted from the verbal argument and sex that had endured before. His lover pushed his brown hair out of his sleeping face, and studied how relaxed his face had become in sleep. His mouth, from which profanity and hot kisses had passed previously in the evening , was now slightly open, the lips like they were expecting to be kissed. He pulled the sheets back ever so slightly and studied the red marks that had formed on his neck and chest. Though the marks had been made during love, the fact that they’d been fighting before, the worst fight they’d ever had, made the marks feel dirty and violent, and his lover felt ashamed. He knew he would never understand why he was doing this, but he knew it had to be done. His lover pressed a kiss to his warm cheek, gathered the small suitcase he’d packed and left, casting one last glance at the sleeping form still peacefully in the bed, before shutting the door softly. 

On Monday he woke up, his sleepy fingers stretching out, probing the space in front of him for his lover. When he found the space empty, he was not worried. He got up and looked in his lover’s bedroom. He was a little panicked because they’d had a huge fight the night before, and now his love wasn’t answering his phone. On Monday night, he threw his phone at the wall, regretting every word he has said to his love that fated night before. He sank down and ran his hands through his hair. He couldn't catch his breath, for some reason. Trying to cope with his lover leaving him so abruptly was like suddenly having to learn to breathe without air. All the colors in the cheery apartment they shared seemed faded and dull. He shut his eyes and pressed his head against the wall, willing himself to go back in time to the day they'd met.

On Tuesday he smiled like everything was fine and went out with friends. Wherever they went he scanned the crowd for a familiar face, for _his_ face. When he got home he drew himself a hot bath and sat there, late into the night, even after the water got cold and his fingers and toes started to prune, absentmindedly running his fingers over the red marks on his chest and neck left over from the sex, unaware that his lover had scrutinized those same marks only hours earlier. 

On Wednesday he stopped leaving voicemails and went into his lover’s room. It was colorful and neat, as it had appeared before his lover left, but if he looked closely, he could tell all the things important to his lover had been taken. His wallet and keys, his phone and charger, and some of his lover’s favorite clothes were gone. He opened the closet and pulled out a bright yellow sweatshirt he’d given him for his birthday only a few years earlier. He sat down on the bright duvet and pressed the sweatshirt to his face, inhaling the scent of him. He didn’t care about the fight, or about anything that’d been said or accused in the heat of things. In fact he regretted it all, and would take it all back in an instant if it meant his lover would come back to him. 

On Thursday he decided to draw. He’d heard somewhere that drawing and writing were both excellent ways to work through shit, and he’d done a lot of drawing in high school, though now he was out of practice. He wrote intense pages of letters, and poetry with recurring phrases. I love you. I need you. Come back to me. You are the best thing in my life. I didn’t mean it. Though he didn’t intend for it to be, every drawing, every poem, seemed to have a common theme: him. His dark hair, his blue eyes, the way his smile transformed his face and how he made wherever they were together feel like what he’d been missing his whole life, what he’d wanted and thirsted for in a way that was so deeply complex and personal that he never spoke of it to anybody but his lover, who emitted an endless warmth, a promise that any situation, no matter how bleak would get better, because his lover always carried the thing he wanted and needed more than anything in this life which was a sense of _home._

On Friday, when somebody asked where his lover was, he only smiled a slightly pained smile that didn’t reach his eyes and said that he was very, very busy. 

On Saturday he got drunk, more drunk than he had ever been in his entire life. He was dangerously drunk, past that point in intoxication where one feels the urge to drive, or talk, or call their ex. He was so drunk he couldn’t think. He could barely keep his eyelids from drooping and the bottle slipped from his hand as he reached out through the red haze of intoxication to grasp at the imaginary figures before him. 

On Sunday, in the evening there was a knock at the door. Sat at the couch with a pizza and coke, halfheartedly invested in some cheap sitcom he found on Netflix, not to mention still slightly hungover, he got up, shuffled over and opened it to see his lover, soaking wet from the pouring rain. Tears stood in his lover's eyes and two words were posed at his lips, the only two words that he needed to say, and which needed to be exchanged.  
"I’m sorry."


End file.
